


The Adventure of the Storming Sea

by bees_stories



Series: The Prospero Incident [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Doctor John Watson, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injured John, Injured Sherlock, John is a Very Good Doctor, Kidnapping, M/M, sink or swim, swim or die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 04:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7298785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were meant to be on a romantic Caribbean holiday, but a London hard man named Lester "Peaky" Adderson had other plans for Sherlock and John. Kidnapped and left for dead, their only hope of rescue is themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Storming Sea

*****

Nothing made sense when John opened his eyes. The air was cool. The light was murky, and it seemed to come solely from a place far above his head. The sand that surrounded him was hard packed, and although it was not currently damp, it looked as if it had been at some point in the recent past.

Sherlock lay on the ground about a yard away. He was curled on his side, at an awkward angle. However, his eyes were open, and he seemed to be resting, rather than unconscious. When he saw that John was awake, he blanked the pained expression on his face and struggled to sit upright. John did the same, and for the next few moments, he watched the world flit in and out of focus. He had a dull headache. There was the taste of blood in his mouth from when he had bitten his tongue. He hurt all over. 

"When you said we were going on holiday, I never imagined it would end up like this." John looked over at Sherlock and then he smiled ruefully. "Although why, I can't imagine. You're a magnet for trouble." 

Sherlock paused probing his ankle and glowered in reply. "I had no idea someone was going to recognise us and take hostile measures." He glanced around the cave, and then upwards at the hole in its roof. "I certainly had no idea that we would end up like this." 

Sherlock sounded decidedly affronted, which made John wonder if he was was being entirely truthful. But it seemed prudent to put the question to the side for the moment as he rubbed at his temples, trying to ease the ache in his head. "Me neither." He looked at Sherlock curiously, because he had no memory of just how they had ended up in their current predicament. "I'm kind of foggy. How did we get here?"

Sherlock muttered something that sounded like 'Peaky Adderson' under his breath, then he cleared his throat and said, "I suspect our pre-massage cup of tea was drugged, and we were quietly escorted from the spa. You do remember the spa?"

John nodded regretfully. "I was really looking forward to that hot lava stone treatment." Regarding his bloody knees with dismay, and regretfully dismissing the notion that warm stones would be applied to his aching muscles any time soon, he levered himself upright. Pulses of white hot agony shot up his left leg and made everything around him blur. John muffled a curse as he shifted his weight and breathed raggedly until the sensation passed. Knowing it was better not to dwell on his own distress, he asked, "How's the ankle?"

Sherlock shrugged, and it was obvious that the motion hurt him as he clamped his jaw. After a moment he replied, "Not broken. The tendons and ligaments are strained, but not detached."

"You hope." John limped to Sherlock's side. He did his own examination of Sherlock's injuries, starting with the damaged ankle, and had to concur the diagnosis was probably correct. His fingers came away sticky with blood from a gash on the back of Sherlock's skull, and but there were no other signs of a more serious head injury. He gingerly ran his palms over Sherlock's arms and legs, and when Sherlock clamped his jaw rather than cried out in distress, John grimaced in sympathy. 

"Your wrist is sprained – "

"As is yours," Sherlock diagnosed with a nonchalant look. "But not seriously."

"Yes, thank you, Dr Holmes." John was trying hard to ignore the persistent throb emanating from his wrist. He drew a breath and went back to his examination. "I'm afraid your collarbone is probably broken." He looked around the underground hollow, and at the collection of flotsam and jetsam washed in by the sea, for materials with which he could improvise splints and wrappings. 

"So you had no idea Peaky Adderson was on the island," John asked casually as he explored the back of the cavern. He remembered Sherlock discussing the London hard-man, (Whose actual given name was Lester), with Greg Lestrade in relation to a mob-style killing.

"I may have heard some mutterings," Sherlock grudgingly admitted. "An unsubstantiated rumour." 

Substantial enough to follow up personally, John translated. He should have known there was more to the mid-winter treat than a sudden romantic urge on the part of his partner. He sighed, cradling his aching left wrist, and thought of leopards and their unchanging spots, peered fruitlessly into a deep recess, and found nothing but smooth stones, a few seashells, some litter, and a lot of sand. 

"Do you hear that?" 

Sherlock lifted his head and his gaze sharpened as he regarded the mouth of the cavern. He assumed a listener's pose, his injuries temporarily forgotten, and his expression became grave as a small wavelet danced up onto the sand a few yards away from where he sat. 

"The tide is coming in." 

John followed Sherlock's line of sight. The next wave crested a few inches closer than the one that preceded it, and the sound of the surf seemed much louder, now that he was paying attention to it.

"You have to appreciate Peaky's thinking," Sherlock remarked, admitting without saying so that he had been rumbled while on a case. "If the fall didn't kill us outright, then the sea was meant finish the job. And if our bodies washed up on shore, instead of being carried out on the tide, it would have appeared to have been a tragic accident." 

Now in full survival mode, John shifted his focus from potential crutches to likely means of escape. The walls were sheer and smooth, eroded by centuries of water eating away at the pale sandstone. There were no natural shelves or outcroppings on which they could perch. The hole, through which they had been dumped, was far above their heads. It was at least twenty feet, if not higher. The distance was hard to judge in the dim light. 

If they were uninjured, and they had the right sort of harnesses and mountaineering gear, they might have been able to managed a miraculous escape by climbing up the rock face and then swinging a line outward, securing it to a tree or a boulder outside the entrance to their prison. But they were injured, seriously enough to make simple rock climbing impossible. The incoming tide grew louder and the sound of rushing water echoed ominously off the cavern walls. John reached a solitary conclusion and he didn't like it one bit. They needed to get out or they were going to drown.

"We'll have to swim for it," Sherlock said, even as John was about to voice the identical thought. It was obvious he had followed the same grim line of reasoning, and wasn't pleased about it either.

John's brain continued to churn furiously, searching for an alternate solution. Limping slowly, he persisted in his explorations, poking into the recesses of the cavern for bits of rope, kelp, driftwood, anything that he could use to support their injured limbs, but he found nothing other than smoke stains and lurid graffiti on the walls from days long past, and some old-fashioned looking ironwork mounted at intervals high over his head. There were no medical supplies, makeshift or otherwise. There was no raft or boat tucked helpfully in a corner, and no overlooked secret staircase or other avenue of escape. "Work with what you have, Watson," John muttered quietly, and then he returned to Sherlock's side, because they weren't completely without resources. 

After Sherlock had shown him the booking slip that confirmed their surprise holiday, in a fit of exuberance, John had gone shopping for a surprise of his own. He had really splashed out, purchasing smart, tropical-weight suits appropriate for intimate and expensive candlelit suppers, plus everything they needed for two weeks of fun in the sun. With a quiet sigh, John unbuttoned his shirt and looked at the cheerfully garish print with regret before he began to tear it into strips. 

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked. 

"I'm going to bind your injuries," John replied brusquely as he slipped into the mindset of a field medic. He looked down at his injured knee. A trickle of blood persisted in running down his calf, and the knee itself was puffy and swollen. "And mine, before we go in. Come on, give me your shirt and your shoes." 

As he worked, helping Sherlock disrobe, tearing more strips of cloth, and then using them to secure their sandals into place as improvised splints, the water level in the cavern rose steadily. It was obvious that they had been dispatched into an actual smuggler's cave; one where goods could be brought in under the cover of darkness on a changing tide, and then hauled by ropes to the surface. Or perhaps people could be lowered to waiting boats to make discreet getaways. The island did have a rich history as a pirate's haven. John smiled, despite himself. Under other circumstances, he would have found visiting the cave fascinating.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

John shrugged, wincing, as he finished tying off the brace around his knee. "I was just thinking, if there was a tour on offer, we probably would have paid good money to see this place." He tipped his head and drew Sherlock's attention to the skull and crossbones and other markings on the opposite wall. "It's much more authentic than the Pirate Experience tour in town." 

"You're probably right. Ow! Not so tight," Sherlock admonished as John adjusted the wrappings that braced his arm to his chest. 

John studied his handiwork critically and then he looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze. "Are you sure you're going to be able to swim like that?"

Sherlock gave him a resigned smile. "Do I have a choice?" 

John met the smile with one of his own that was equally abject. "I suppose not." They limped into the churning surf. "Sherlock," he said hesitantly. "If we don't make it out of this … I just want you to know, it's been an adventure, and I wouldn't have traded any of it for the world." 

It was odd. In his current frame of mind John knew he should have been angry about Sherlock's deception, and their probably inevitable deaths by drowning, but all he could think of were the mad escapades. The harrowing, nick of time escapes, and the fits of giggles they exchanged when everything around them seemed too ludicrous to bear. Sherlock reached out with his good hand and offered his palm. John clasped it firmly, and then they waded into the surf. 

The water was up to John's thighs in a matter of steps. He glanced down at his injured knee, willing it to endure. The seawater was lukewarm. It had been pleasant when he and Sherlock had larked about in it on the first afternoon of their holiday, like a pair of schoolboys set free after a long and arduous term. Although it had only been a couple of days earlier, that carefree day seemed like a dim and distant memory from his ancient past. 

They waded in deeper, pausing every few steps to steel themselves against their various injuries, taking deep breaths of briny air through their noses and letting them out slowly through pursed lips. John cast a worried look at Sherlock as the bottom gave way without warning, and he was forced to wade in earnest. "You might do better on your back." 

Sherlock nodded. His face was paler than usual, and lined with pain. He dropped John's hand, fell backwards into the incoming tide, and resolutely began a one-armed backstroke .

Tenaciously, they fought their way to the mouth of cavern and into the sea. The sun shone brightly down upon them, and they were forced to blink rapidly against the glare until their eyes could adjust to the change. The bright blue sky was filled with puffy silvery-white clouds that scudded quickly overhead. They were chased by a strong breeze that would have ruffled their hair, had it not already been plastered to their scalps. It was another perfect day in paradise. 

There were no hotels or condominiums surrounding the pirate's cave, only sheer sandstone rock faces that were dotted with the occasional shrubby tree or rangy patch of scrub plants. They were going to have to swim farther down the coastline where tourists lounged on pink coral sand beaches between dips to cool off, and fishing and dive boats puttered, ferrying those who preferred more energetic pursuits to deeper waters. As he orientated himself to their surroundings, the current surged and churned, and John's heart lurched with sudden hope.

"Sherlock, do you feel that?" John said excitedly. 

There were signs posted on the beach outside their hotel; warnings of undersea cross currents that could tow poor or unwary swimmers far from the point from where they entered.

"The ... rip … tide. We can ... let it ... carry us." 

The momentary surge of euphoria dissipated between heartbeats. John whipped saltwater out of his eyes and looked at Sherlock. He didn't like what he saw. The exertion of their escape from the cave coupled with his injuries had been too much. Sherlock was drifting, barely hanging onto consciousness. Immediately John's thoughts went to the bloody gash that hadn't seemed more than a scratch. Head wounds bled, often alarmingly. It didn't always portent a more serious injury. Still, John felt a knife blade of worry stab into his guts, and he wished he could have made a better and more thorough examination before they went into the sea.

"Damn it, Sherlock! Stay with me." John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand, pulling him closer. Though his knee and wrist throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and the rest of him was aching as well, John was used to living with a certain degree of pain. He had developed enough of a tolerance that he was able to repress his own discomfort, successfully boxing it away until he had time and privacy to contend with it properly.

He thumbed back Sherlock's eyelids and observed the pupils contract satisfactorily. Gently, he tilted Sherlock's head and peered into his ears, looking for signs that blood or spinal fluid was seeping into the canals, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the only foreign liquid was saltwater. Lightly he slapped Sherlock's cheeks, and when that had no noticeable effect, he pressed their lips together, hoping to provoke a reaction.

John got a smile for his efforts, and a thump on the back of his own head as Sherlock raised his splinted forearm to cradle John in return. "I was hoping we might have sex in the ocean," he murmured off-handedly when they parted.

Startled, John replied, "You were?" The unguarded revelation about Sherlock's erotic wishes momentarily derailed John's concerns for his partner's well-being. For several moments, all he could think was despite their years together, he didn't really know Sherlock at all. "I want to take you up on that. Later, when we're not in danger of drowning. Right now I need you to wake up. Stay with me, Sherlock." 

Sherlock opened his eyes, and then he threw a hand over his face to shield it from an unrelenting sun. "Will always … come back for you," he muttered. "Need you ... to trust that." 

New kinks and old insecurities. If there was a silver lining into any of this, it was how much he was learning about what went on inside Sherlock's head. John looked down into Sherlock's sunburnt face and then kissed him again as an overwhelming swell of affection got the better of him.

He pushed sodden curls out off Sherlock's forehead and said, "Right. Enough mucking about." John trusted their luck to those who watched over shipwrecked sailors, and all the other unfortunates who had incurred Neptune's wrath. The riptide was strong, and it was carrying them inexorably closer to civilization, so he focused his waning energies on keeping himself and Sherlock conscious and afloat as the foreboding rocks gave way to desolate jungle. 

A parrot cried out in alarm. 

The sun disappeared. 

The puffy clouds and otherwise clear azure blue sky transformed into the sort of ominous grey overcast that reminded John of home. 

The sea around them turned from turquoise to slate, and with a crash and a rattle, it began to rain. 

John opened his mouth, slaking his thirst with sweet water. He encouraged Sherlock to do the same. The sky continued to change colour, becoming nearly as dark as the sea around them. The wind came up, buffeting their bodies as the rain grew more persistent. Fat droplets smacked against a flurry of white-capped chop, sending seawater shooting upwards in tiny geysers. 

Shivers rode hard over their bodies as the temperature dropped precipitously. John looked upward into the angry sky and was nearly overwhelmed by a primal sense of fear. Sherlock grabbed him around the biceps and shouted over the tempest, "Swim, John!" 

John pulled himself back under control. He had faced worse. Hadn't he? Doggedly, he dragged himself through the water, a few strokes at a time, making sure that Sherlock was never out of his sight.

Exertion beat back the sensation that his blood was freezing in his veins, but even though he was a decent swimmer, the rough seas were difficult to endure. John felt his strength flagging. With every miserable stroke a little more of it ebbed away as the rain continued to pound down upon them. It pummelled their sunburnt flesh, adding fresh bruises to those they had sustained when they had hit the floor of the pirate's cave, and whipped the sea around them into a frenzy.

A large swell caught John unaware, it tore him from Sherlock's grip and sent him tumbling like a rag doll. In that moment, John knew that he was done for. He felt curiously resigned. He was tired. So very, very tired. If the ocean took him, it wasn't because he hadn't tried, but because it was simply beyond his ability to do more with what little he had. He had been at a disadvantage from the start. He had been drugged and then injured. The odds were never in his favour, not even with Sherlock Holmes at his side. 

_So you're going to let that bastard Peaky Adderson get the better of you?_ a rather peeved voice said from somewhere in the back of his brain.

John frowned. In the sea stories he had read, drowning victims felt a sense of euphoria and anticipation in the moments before their demise. Why was he hearing the voice of his least favourite Sergeant Major? 

_Because he's the one who never let you get away with anything?_ John answered himself. _If he was here, you know he'd be ticking you off for slacking._

Besides, auditory hallucination or not, the voice in his head had a point. 

A no good London hard man had got the drop on them while he and Sherlock were minding their own business, enjoying their first proper holiday in ages, and that was just not acceptable. 

Indignation brought with it a fresh sense of resolve. He and Sherlock would have their holiday. He would have his hot stone massage, and Sherlock would get the opportunity to play out his fantasy. And if for some reason they didn't, then Peaky Adderson, the bastard, would be haunted by a doctor who knew just the right sort of things to whisper into a hypochondriac's ear that would send him straight round the twist.

John forced himself up and out of the sea, whipping his head from side to side to clear briny water from his eyes and mouth. Sherlock bobbed a few yards away, waves splashing over him as he was buffeted. With a fresh sense of determination, John grabbed hold of Sherlock, raised his head upward so he wouldn't drown, and pushed onward. 

No one would award his technique; part dog-paddle, part backstroke, part something of his own devising, but they stayed afloat, and they kept moving. After a while, John felt the sort of curious lightness of spirit that long distance runners got off on; an endorphin high that was the reward for pushing the human body beyond its natural limits. He no longer felt the cold. He no longer felt the rain. He no longer felt anything at all, but a sense of pure exhilaration. 

"We're almost there. Sherlock, we're going to get through this." 

Buoyed by a fresh sense of determination, John swam onward, bringing them closer to salvation.

* * * 

John woke up.

It was a bright morning. Sunbeams streamed through the partially open shutters, and dust motes danced in their wake. He blinked several times, feeling deeply confused when he looked beside him and saw what could only be Sherlock's lanky frame buried under the duvet. His last memory was of a dark and sullen sea, over which a tropical storm had lashed furiously. 

Gingerly, he peeled back the red hibiscus-print duvet and observed that he was naked, and his skin was marred by patches of pink and red. His left knee was a nightmare of bruises, but only somewhat swollen and tender. One of Sherlock's sandals still supported the back of it, held in place by strips of ruined shirt. The bandages that had been wrapped around his left wrist hung like bedraggled streamers. When he attempted to flex his hand, the wrist joint alerted him that it was definitely sprained. 

Sherlock stirred and attempted to roll over. "Ow," he said. "Bad idea." He turned his head and looked at John. "If you wouldn't mind, I seem to be rather stiff, and the damage to my clavicle is a decided impediment." 

John helped Sherlock roll over and propped pillows behind his back. He was a study in lurid colours, bruised where he wasn't sunburnt. They both were.

"So it wasn't a particularly graphic nightmare," John said. "We really were kidnapped, dumped into a pirate's cave, left for dead, and forced to swim for miles?" 

Sherlock nodded, and it was obvious he regretted the gesture. "If you dreamt it, I did as well." 

John frowned. He looked around their luxurious suite with its white tile floors and heavy teak furnishings and said, "How did we end up back here?"

Sherlock shrugged, and the shrug was followed closely by a wince. "The current, if you'll recall, was incoming. Once the riptide carried us close enough to the resort, we broke free of it and allowed the waves to do the rest. We were washed ashore, practically on our own doorstep."

John remembered. There had been a momentary break in the rain. He had looked shoreward, once again bereft of hope, and caught sight of a beachside cantina renowned for its rum punch. The glow from strings of bright fairy-lights and a garishly illuminated animated lobster had pierced the storm's murk. It was probably a hallucination, he had told himself. Wishful thinking made more substantial by desperation. "Do you see that?" he had asked Sherlock as he pointed at the lights. 

Sherlock had stared and gripped John's arm. He had kissed John's cheek and hauled him into a one-armed hug as a brilliant smile broke over his face. "We've done it!" he exclaimed, delighted. "Come on, John!" 

It had taken the last of their strength to break the grip of the riptide. They cast themselves forward into a great curl of a wave, and had ridden it until it crashed a few yards away from the shoreline. After that, John remembered stumbling drunkenly on leaden feet through a torrential downpour that washed them clean of salt and sand. 

They had stood naked on the patio. A hot blush flushed John's cheeks as he recalled peeling out of his shorts (And pants!) in full view of anyone who might have been watching, and then fumbling through the zip and Velcro protected pockets, trying to extract key cards from their wallets. Sherlock had dropped his onto the tiles, but together they had managed to successfully slot John's into the door and then they had stumbled inside. Exhausted, they had crawled into bed, unmindful of their sodden state, and promptly lost consciousness. 

"What about Peaky Adderson?" John asked. "We need to tell the police." 

"There's no rush," Sherlock said as he reached for the Room Service menu and began to study the options. "Peaky thinks we're dead. We can probably use that to our advantage." 

John sighed. He knew the look on Sherlock's face well. Lester "Peaky" Adderson would be brought to book, but not until Sherlock had taken a full measure of revenge. He handed Sherlock the house phone, so that he could place the breakfast order, and leant back against the pillows, the better to rest and marshal his energy. _The Adventure of the Storming Sea_ may have reached a satisfactory conclusion, but _The Search for the …_

No, that wasn't suitably dramatic. John mentally backed up his train of thought and tried again. 

_The Pursuit …_

Yes, John mused, that was much more evocative. He could practically see himself and Sherlock bearing down on Peaky Adderson as he frantically sought some means of escape.

 _The Pursuit of the Hypochondriac Hard Man_ was about to get underway, and he was going to need all his strength and wits about him for whatever next lay ahead.

end


End file.
